Satchel
by shelllessturtle
Summary: In which Sherlock has a new accessory, and John questions it, more fool he. Just a bit of fluff written for my sister when she was feeling down.


A/N: Okay, so this is new. This story is dedicated to my little sister, LinkLuver3, for whom it was written. She was having a bad day, so I offered to write custom fluff for her if she gave me a prompt. Her prompt was: John/Sherlock, Humour and Romance, "The Man-Purse"

Like I said, this is new. I've never done Johnlock before, or any type of Sherlock fic, so, uh, go easy? Please?

* * *

He had never seen that before. He would have said that it was new, except that it was battered and stained. Admittedly, given what Sherlock got up to on a daily basis, it wouldn't be hard for any of his things to get battered and stained very quickly. He stared at it a moment more before speaking.

"Sherlock," John said slowly, "why do you have a man-purse?"

"It's a satchel," Sherlock replied absently.

John rolled his eyes. "Okay, why do you have a _satchel_?"

"Because I can't fit everything I need in my pockets," Sherlock replied.

John blinked, slightly nonplussed, then shook his head quickly, as if to clear it. "I meant why do you have it in general? Why do you _own_ it?"

"Oh." A faint blush tinted Sherlock's cheeks. "I got it…while I was away."

"Oh," John repeated. Getting Sherlock to talk about the period after he had faked his death was difficult, both because Sherlock was a stubborn man and because John didn't want to think about it too much. "Do…do you want to talk about it?"

The taller man froze for a moment, then sighed, releasing all the tension from his long body. He dropped the satchel, took off his coat, and threw himself onto the couch. "I never told you who I roomed with. You know, it's just as easy to hide two people as it is to hide one…"

/;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/

He hated going back to the flat. Whenever he walked through the door, that _woman_ would be sitting in the armchair, watching him hungrily. He had no idea how she managed it; it wasn't as if he kept a regular, predictable schedule. The only way he could think of that she could do it would be if she sat there, waiting for him, the whole time he was gone. The thought of it made him shudder.

Fumbling with his keys, Sherlock touched the new bag hanging at his side. He wished he could go home. He wished that he could—just this once—have Mycroft take care of everything. He wished he could see—

"Hello, lover," the woman purred.

"Irene," Sherlock said stiffly.

She wore a slightly parted dressing gown, and nothing else. Sherlock groaned inwardly. She was going to try _this_ again? She had tried everything from making suggestive jokes to parading around in her altogether to get him into bed with her, and she would not accept that he wasn't interested.

The woman had seemed to have decided that the best route to go was a combination of the subtle and the not-so-subtle, hence the dressing gown. Sherlock had a momentary flashback to watching an episode of Doctor Who with John, the very first one from 2005, and the scene of Jackie Tyler in her bedroom. He fought determinedly to keep the smirk off his face.

"Sherlock, love," Adler said, breaking through Sherlock's mental reverie, "what are you doing tonight?"

"Reading," Sherlock replied tersely. He moved through the flat, intent on getting to his bedroom. He would never admit it to anyone, but he found the frustration on her face the funniest thing he had seen in a while. Underground as she was, it was almost as hard for her to continue her practice as it was for him to continue his. Denying her wants had become one of the precious few amusements of his life.

"Why?" Her voice was almost petulant, and Sherlock was glad that his back was to her; he could not keep the grin off his face any longer.

"I enjoy it." Though he knew he'd enjoy it a lot more if a certain blogger updated his blog more frequently, or, rather, ever. His hand strayed to the new bag again. He needed to get to his room.

"Sherlock." Something in Adler's voice made Sherlock turn, the smile hidden once more.

He regretted the action almost as soon as he had taken it. Adler launched herself at him, mashing her lips to his. She was all soft curves against him, cool to the touch—no doubt from sitting around all day in nothing but a dressing gown. She was insistent and confident, not shy or hesitant, like she took it for granted that he would accept her if she just got things going.

Sherlock sighed internally and firmly detached the woman from himself. She looked a little confused for a moment, then a look of acceptance crossed her face and she sighed. "What's in the bag?" she asked, as if she hadn't just tried to snog the hell out of him.

This time, Sherlock did let her see the grin.

/;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/ \;;;\ ~;;;~ /;;;\ /;;;/

Silence reigned in the flat for a few moments after Sherlock stopped talking. John had migrated to the couch during the story, and they sat side by side.

"She…kissed you?" John asked, trying hard not to laugh. Somehow, he had trouble picturing it.

"I didn't like it," Sherlock said defensively, which sent John into gales of laughter.

Once the smaller man had caught his breath, he met Sherlock's eyes. "You know," John said conversationally, "you still really haven't told me why you got the satchel in the first place."

"Oh," Sherlock said again, and the blush was back, darker this time, and covering more area. "I got it to hold things that reminded me of you."

John was stunned for a moment, then he did the only thing that felt natural. He leaned over and kissed the other man on the mouth.

He knew what Sherlock had meant about women being all soft curves, and knew equally why the other man hadn't liked it. When his toughened muscles met Sherlock's bony planes, he knew that softness had no place in their relationship. The kiss itself wasn't even gentle. It was a fiery battle of teeth and tongues and wills, and they both fought hard for dominance.

As the flatmates and best friends sat there, tongues dancing, hands everywhere, John knew that he would never kiss anyone else ever again. He knew that, no matter what, this would be a battle that they both would partake in again, and one that, always, they would both win.

* * *

A/N2: As a side note, I actually do know exactly what Sherlock kept in the bag while he was away. If you want to know, or if you want to know what's up with my dividing line, leave a review and ask!


End file.
